


Birth

by Gryff



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Hallucinations, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 13:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18918247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryff/pseuds/Gryff
Summary: From Wikipedia:"Basarab Laiotă returned to Wallachia with Ottoman support, and Vlad died fighting against them in late December 1476 or early January 1477. In a letter written on 10 January 1477, Stephen III of Moldavia related that Vlad's Moldavian retinue had also been massacred. According to Leonardo Botta, the Milanese ambassador to Buda, the Ottomans cut Vlad's corpse into pieces. Bonfini wrote that Vlad's head was sent to Mehmed II.The place of his burial is unknown."





	Birth

The wounds are deep, but he could walk. That is the only reassurance he needed. He could move forward, he can hold a sword in his hands. It isn’t his sword. He tried to ignore the fact that his hands are trembling, but his grip holds. He could fight. He could fight. He would fight. Where is his sword? 

He’s going to die on his feet, fighting. He did not sacrifice this much to give up now. 

He took a step forward. He could feel his body ache at the movement. Where is everyone? He does not even see the man who last attacked him. Had he killed him already? He knew that Mehmed (and Radu, treacherous traitorous brother) wanted his head. He should have been decapitated by now. He should have been dead, his body defiled and tossed to the wind. Did they want to finish the battle first? Did his men drive the Ottomans away? He cannot see very far ahead of him. Had a fog rolled in as he was fighting? 

He took another step. It isn’t as long as his first. No, he can remember now. He can remember. But he doesn’t understand why. His men were slaughtered, massacred. It didn’t explain why there was no one here now. Why the world around him was empty and quiet. Even after a battle was over it was not silent. There were the sounds of dying men and horses, the sounds of a retreating or triumphant army, the sounds of the blasphemous looters and scavengers who followed the army, the sounds of wailing. But there was nothing. 

He took another step. He stumbled. 

He heard an owl screeching. Owls aren’t often scavengers. He wondered why it was so close. 

Perhaps he has already died, or he is at the precipice of death now. Perhaps this is Purgatory, but it is different than he was told. Perhaps it is because of what he has done. He waits for the fog to shift, for it to turn into the faces of all those he killed or for the fog to part and allow those shambling corpses to arrive and shame him. But nothing comes. It would not have done anything. No. He does not regret any of it. He did what he had to do for the sake of his people. His people. He brought them prosperity and hope in a time when a weaker leader would have let them be conquered. All he had done was for them. Wasn’t it? 

“There you are,” a voice said from behind him. He turned and slashed the air with his (not his) sword. The movement was heavy as if someone had filled his bones and blood with lead. He missed. His head spun, dizzy. He stumbled again. 

“There is no need for that,” the voice said again. It was very feminine, but husky. It might have been one of the Ottoman eunuchs. He knew that voice, the sing-song honey drenched voices trapped or sent back into puberty. They threatened him with that fate many a time. He could feel his blood boil. He remembered smug smiles and threatening gestures. He wasn’t going to die at the hands of one of the Sultan’s subjects, let alone one of them. He’d rather bleed out that fight one of them. He’d rather fall on his sword. Was this why was still alive? Did Mehmed want to torture him with this fate instead of death? He was a fool. He should know. He would rather die. He would choose death.  
He attacked again. He did not know who he was aiming at when he swung the sword. He just moved the arm. He fell then. He didn’t know when it had happened but his body gave up, toppled by the shift in his stance, too quick too sudden. He tried to lurch upwards, wanted to, needed to. He needed to fight. A curse bubbled in his throat, perhaps more literal now than ever before in his life. “Bastard,” he wanted to say. “Whore’s son. Tell Mehmed that I will ravage him for what he has done.” A thousand curses on the Ottomans and the Hungarians conjure and then evaporate on his tongue, never being uttered. His body hurts too much. 

The voice shushed him. It stroked the top of his head with calloused fingers. 

“What?” he wanted to say, but instead of words a gurgling cough erupted from his mouth. The figure raised up his head onto its lap.  
“No - rds,” it said something after, something he couldn’t understand. His ears rang, was it a different language? He couldn’t recognize it. Maybe it was the high pitched sound growing in his ears. Was the owl screeching again? It was much too loud and getting closer. 

“You - ill -ht,” the voice murmured. “Drink.” he thought he heard that same tone again. He knew it was. He felt as if he was drowning underneath that ringing. It was the ocean over him, sweeping him underneath its oppressiveness and muting his world. It sounded like screaming now. 

He feels something being pressed against his lips. A liquid flowed there, ready to consumed. Water? Wine? It is too thick to be either. But it was one last drink for a dead man. One last drink for the tyrant, the mad king. Did he deserve such a luxury? He laughs. He thinks he laughs. He wants to laugh. Instead he opens his mouth and lets the liquid flow down his throat. It’s cool and hot, burning him in an aftertaste in his core. It radiates heat, but then it leaves him as soon as it comes, leaving him desperate for more of the warmth . He became voracious, sucking down the thick syrup with the desperation of a dehydrated man. 

“Good,” he could hear the voice clearer now, the more he drinks. Things begin to clear. He can see her now, the sunshine in the center of a storm. She is there, beautiful and radiant as She always has been. The Sun and Moon, a being, an aspect of heat and warmth and light but willing to kill and destroy to be cold and callous and disappear. She smiles at him. He smiles back. 

He lets the noise flood over him.

**Author's Note:**

> I made this a long time ago. I was initially reluctant to post it, but I figured that if I am going to continue with my version of Dracula (which I am!) I should put this here eventually.
> 
> That mysterious woman figure will get a name and identity soon, perhaps.
> 
> [I suppose it is a canonical death depending on how you interpret Western vampires to function.]
> 
> As always, feel free to leave reactions, comments, critiques, edits, etc.


End file.
